Girl's Fool-proof Argument for Fake Tan Wins Her Coveted Spot at Harvard Law School

“I Like a Good Rant” Wednesday

Girl’s Fool-Proof Argument for Fake Tan

Wins Her Coveted Spot at Harvard Law School

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Many of our local teenage girls are members of a certain high school sorority.  In December, the girls in the sorority get to ask unsuspecting guys to a Winter Formal, at which the gentlemen must wear something other than gym shorts, comb their hair, buy a corsage, and take pictures at the pre-party house until all the moms with cameras pause their picture-snapping to pour themselves more wine.  

Necessities for the girls are an awesome strapless dress which must reek of skank, hooker shoes, Spanx,  jewelry, a second or third piercing in her ears, manicure (possibly acrylic nails), pedicure, a professionally manipulated hairstyle, a makeover, a limo, pouty lips and most importantly, a fake tan, which may consist of spraying or lying under really hot lights, whichever is her preference.  

The reason for this custom is that she must look good in the pictures.  If she stood between two friends at the prom and looked like the middle of an Oreo, her social swag factor would plunge like the economy under Obama, and you just might as well nail her coffin shut right now. 

Many girls must wheedle, cajole, or negotiate with parents to finance a fake tan because many parents disagree with its necessity.  

“I mean, I “get” the cartilage piercing, but a fake tan?  I don’t know, Ashley.  We didn’t do that before our proms.”

“Mom you didn’t have tanning salons back in the Dark Ages.”

“It seems as if you’d like to begin negotiations on the limo, which previously was a done deal, party girl.” 

Young ladies have become very sophisticated in their arguments for the parental funding of orange skin, detailing its many advantages.  However, I believe the best argument is one in which the prom “eeeww-I-look-like-Michael-Jackson” girl describes to her mother in detail what will happen if she DOESN’T get a fake tan.

What will happen if I do not get a fake tan:       by Ashley

If I don’t get a fake tan, I won’t look good in the pictures.

If I don’t look good in the pictures, people will make fun of me.

If people make fun of me, I’ll have low self-esteem and make bad grades.

If I make bad grades, I won’t get into a good college.

If I don’t get into a good college, I will marry down and have six Honey Boo-Boo babies.

If I marry down and have Honey Boo-Boos, we’ll be poor and I’ll have a ratty car.

If I have a ratty car, it will stall near my trailer park.

If it stalls near my trailer park, I might get abducted.

If I get abducted, you’ll go broke because you’ll have to pay my ransom.

If you go broke, then you’ll have to live in my trailer and pay my rent because I lost my job when I was abducted for so long.

If you live in my trailer and pay my rent, you’ll go in debt.

If you go in debt, you’re going to have to drink boxed wine.

CASE CLOSED.

HARVARD LAW SCHOOL.

How Mom's Indecision Could Change History

“I Like a Good Rant” Wednesday

How Mom’s Indecision Could Change History

Since I'm frazzled, making decisions, even small ones, paralyzes me.  However, I’m quite talented at making decisions for friends.  

At the mall a friend asked me which running shoes she should buy—the cool, expensive ones, or the cheaper, boring ones with more reflective areas because she runs on busy streets at night.  

Without a hitch between bites of my giant pretzel, I said, “Hon, be safe. Get the cute ones.”

Let’s face it, tens of people look up to me, so making decisions regarding myself is complicated and the stakes are high.  

Let’s say I’m buying a dress for a charity event. My choices are:  a dress I LOVE in a department store or one I don’t love in a small boutique.  No one else at the event will likely be wearing the boutique dress.  But I might see four sluts women wearing my department store dress, and all those Real (Snooty) Housewives of the Heart Gala will think I shop at the “cheap clothes for cheap girls” store.  

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Deciding on paper plates is also a serious issue.  Dixie plates are more expensive than the store brand but Dixie has a few more in it.  If I can’t figure out the best deal, I become panicky with a prickly sensation, and my cart heads to the wine aisle.  Although the prickly sensation could be caused by squatting down to check prices in sweatpants covering legs that haven’t been shaved since Labor Day.  

Nowadays grocery stores label shelves with the cost per paper plate.  That’s a little condescending.  

        Do I look like I can’t figure it out on my own?  Well, I can’t because I have normal girl genes, and that type of calculus is hard for me, especially word problems.  But they shouldn't automatically assume that just because I walk around the grocery store aimlessly in pink pajama pants that I don’t know the paranormal algorithm of explicit percentages like boy people.  

        My left brain (along with the “fun” part, according to my kids) was destroyed by watching ’70’s TV shows and stressing about stuff like whether Carol Brady would discover that Marsha and Jan were hiding reefer in their room.

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Here’s how my brain works:

Me:  These store brand paper plates are five cents cheaper.

Angst:  How do you know they’re cheaper? Did you do the math?

Me:  Shut up.

Angst:  Last time that brand folded holding Coach Hubby’s spaghetti and meat balls.

Me:  Alright, but if I get the name brand, I’m gonna put the Dial soap back and get the Bored Simple brand.

Angst:  You need to put that cookie dough back while you’re at it.

Me:  No!  I never spend money on myself!

Angst: (Chardonnay coming out nose) Do you know how much wine you drink?

What’s with the explosion of store brands, anyway?  I mean, pretty soon stores will only sell their Bored Simple brand, (ahem, Kroger) and I’ll have no choices, and Communism will rule pockets of suburbia and will trickle up to Chicago and then to the whole Obamanation.  And then nobody will talk American anymore. There IS a lot at stake. 

Forget it.  I’m buying the “green” paper plates.  Faced with difficult choices, vacillating moms like me will go “green,” and eventually the whole country will eat nothing but granola and tofu and wear long denim skirts.  At least I’ll fit in with my hairy legs.

Special K and Chardonnay

“Why I Need Happy Hour” Friday

Special K and Chardonnay

Thursday night I finished my dinner of left-over lasagna and searched for something sweet.  I poured a glass of chardonnay because I deserved it on account of I hadn't had any since yesterday.  

        Special K Bars lined my pantry, but they’re made of cardboard, and cardboard does not go with chardonnay.  Everyone knows that cardboard is chiefly paired with Mogen David Rosé or strong coffee in the morning.  That came out wrong—I would not suggest Mogen David in the morning.  I’d love to have a big, chocolate Krispy Kreme most mornings.  Or a few calorie-inflated granola bars, but granola gives me gas.  However, I digress. 

 

Anyhoo, as I was trying to find something to satisfy my insatiable chocolate monster, I read the side of the Special K Bar box for kicks.

“Drop a jean size in two weeks (double exclamation points)!!  The Special K Challenge.”  

           Really.  I couldn’t drop a jean size in two years.  They should have an asterisk beside that.  I’m 38 (woo hoo!  Chardonnay just came out of my nose) going on 68 and I’m fixin’ to drop a Size 8 trou to a Size 6?  After three kids and a metabolism that shut down in 1998, I could really rake in the ratings on The View if that actually worked.  

So... I read the scientific "spin" on the side of the box.

MEAL #1:

Kick-start your day with a serving of Special K Cereal (ANY flavor) (oh yay) with 2/3 cup skim milk.  ENJOY with fruit.

It didn’t say how much a serving of cereal was.  I couldn’t translate the hooo-hah on the side of the box because I couldn’t translate metric into American.  So, I poured my artificially flavored Chocolate Special K into my usual cereal bowl and poured the thimble of SKIM in.  Well, I was sure the Special K people would like to avoid a big ‘ol lawsuit because of me choking on dry cereal so I poured just a Biggie size Wendy’s cup tad more milk in.

Meal #2:

“Replace another meal with a delicious Special K Protein Meal Bar, Special K Protein Shake, or another serving of your favorite Special K Cereal (ANY flavor) with 2/3 cup of SKIM milk and fruit.  

Since I didn’t have any strawberries without fur on them, I used a can of strawberry pie filling from last Thanksgiving.  That’s when I stopped talking to Aunt Billie Rae because she was being hateful and brought her “blue-ribbon” (I wish I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that) strawberry pie to Mama’s for Thanksgiving when she KNEW that I had signed up to bring it.

Meal #3:

Eat your third meal as you normally would.

This was cool.  So, my husband was out of town.  Mac ‘n Cheese for dinner.  That would not be up for debate with my kids.  I thought I needed a little protein since I was on a strict diet, so the bacon added a nice touch.  Sipping my chardonnay and boiling my noodles, I thought this diet’s working out OK.  

I’ll let you know when I’m gonna be on The View.

I Might Like Prozac Barbie After All

I Might Like Prozac Barbie After All

I often shop at the upscale, Just Plucked Market in my suburb, but I stick out like Peg Bundy in Tiffany’s.  All the ladies wear tennis outfits or dark, rhinestone-studded jeans with stilettos.  I’m convinced everyone is looking at my hair and assuming I can’t afford to get my roots done.  I always feel a little nervous, like Aimee on My Big Redneck Vacation when all the rednecks visited London and discovered they were having spotted dick for dinner.  

Recently while shopping at Just Plucked, I noticed Prozac Barbie with her preschoolers, Babs and Ken Jr.  I saw her lips cart coming around the corner first, and she looked like Lisa Rinna/Daisy Duck perturbed with the children.  I didn’t know she was mad at them at first because she was botoxicated trying to stay calm.  But when I got closer I heard her hiss something to her son about the cookie he was eating and his expensive Polo shirt.

             

While standing at the meat counter, little K used his fingers to wipe chocolate from his mouth.  Aghast, at least I think, Barbie pulled baby wipes out of her Louis Vuitton and shoved them toward Kenny’s face.  By that time he’d already used the back of his hand, and wiped the fudginess on his shirt.  Barb was mortified.  She leaned down in her stilettos and went anti-bacterial on his cookie mess.

What’s strange about this scene?  First, I wouldn’t be organized enough to have baby wipes in my purse.  Second, my kid would’ve worn a Star Wars t-shirt instead of a Polo.  And third, I would’ve expected him to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and rub it on his shirt, like a normal boy.  If not, he would’ve put his arms around me and wiped his mouth on my butt.

Speaking of my butt and lard, I saw something freakish in the dairy section at Just Plucked—containers of Duck Fat—to buy!  Of course, I keep my bacon grease in a coffee cup in the fridge like regular people, but what do you possibly do with Duck Fat?  Maybe deep-fry some Oreos.  I’d love to ask a manager what it’s used for, but I figure he’d be real snooty like the saleslady at Glamour Shots when I only bought one slutty picture from my photo session back in ’83.

One day I’d love to yell across the aisle to the smug Regional Director of Just Plucked Inc. 

“Could you tell me where ya’lls vie-enny sausages are?  Wooo, I sure do love them thangs.  That’s some good shit right there.  They’re better’n crap on a cracker.”  

That’s going on my bucket list.

I picked up a bag of organic Cheeto balls and waited for Prozac Barbie to herd her clan through the checkout.  I felt a tad sorry for her because her make-up was running down her face in the Memphis heat.  She must’ve moved here from the Hamptons or something.  Just as I walked out, she shoved her offspring into a clown-car sized Mercedes, melted into the driver’s seat, and took a cleansing deep breath.  

Then, as I watched PB’s life unfold in her little cocoon of a car, I realized we’re all alike.  

She gave her four-year-old his Nintendo and her two-year-old her sippy cup, and untucked a bottle of Chardonnay from the hidden compartment of her suburban mom-mobile, and didn’t even worry about a glass. 

I hear ya’ sister.  We have more in common than you know.